Aphrodisiac
by Devilzzz
Summary: Voldemort needs something to rule the world. The-Boy-Who-Lived might die. Ginny has untouchable blood. Draco is the weapon. Oh, and Bellatrix Lestrange is quite in love with her master. Evil stuff and poison. And more stuff.
1. EVIL STUFF ONE: And I Venture Thee

Aphrodisiac  
  
PROLOGUE  
I VENTURE THEE ___________  
  
He gulped down the poison with one, solid gulp. He knew, he knew what was wrenching inside of him - the cuts of Devil's snare and the blood of a unicorn, he knew it was pure and it was sin, and he tasted it, and it tasted like nothing. His clammy, sweaty hands pushed against the walls, his white-frothing lips pressed against the white wall with a drawing of two snakes coiling each other - his lips lusciously devoured the taste of the plastic wall, the false illusion of the surface.  
  
"Password?" hissed the voice of the serpent, it's red eyes now luminous and wide, glaring pointedly at the poison dripping from his lips.  
  
"Dareka Symphony," Draco said, in the clearest voice he could manage - but the Devil's snare and the white, pure flawless liquid from a unicorn tasted like an acid substance choking his throat and making it whole.  
  
The serpent said nothing, but the other serpent's head was moving sideways - the wall was sliding backwards - leading to a strange, unmoving hallway, a déjà vu, a dream, the hallway. It filled with such shades of white he had never seen before in his life. He pictured himself at the age of five, where his father had taken him to this strange hallway - the odd corridors and no paintings on the walls---others called it nothing, but Draco knew it was important. He knew, in every single wall, there lay the vials of blood of every single witch or wizard that ever lived-at least, they did now.  
  
He pressed his body, slamming it against the familiar wall of the end, and slammed it three more times, sinking his fingernails into it until it drew a picture of an S with a line like the curve of a knife that could kill infants through it. The rules were complex-but Draco had fit into them so beautifully there was no reason to change, no reason to change at all.  
  
The door opened behind him, and he caught himself in an exhale-  
  
"Late again, I see," clicked the tongue of the vicious voice. The halting, spirited voice that made him feel as if he was drowning into a pool of lungs, and he would have to eat them all to survive.  
  
He gazed up, trying to mouth out the words-but with an inhale, he vomited the poison all over the floor, scattering every single white and skin over the black tiles.  
  
Voldemort was not pleased.  
  
//s.y.m.p.h.o.n.y.//  
  
The wound, the gash across his forearm felt remarkably soothing as Ginny touched his skin with the middle of her palm, feeling it -"Don't - Harry, you shout, you scream, it'll hurt even longer."  
  
"I want this to be over," he said, gritting his teeth, the snake fang now protruding as Ginny hesitated to pull it out without surrendering to agony.  
  
"We all do," she whispered in a promising voice, and closed Harry's eyes with the slide of her fingers, before she painfully struck the fang out. He gasped, kneeling to the ground.  
  
"Antidote," she hissed, dabbing a fresh new, small tissue with the lurid, violet substance. He seethed - it was a stinging bliss.  
  
A stinging bliss, it was. He said.  
  
"Ginny?" the concerned voice erupted behind her.  
  
Ginny turned around, and sighed in relief. "Oh! Hermione, thank God! I thought an intruder was in the house---Dad's put all the securities on but- "  
  
"Ginny, it's important," Hermione said urgently in barely a whisper. Somehow, there was something different about her expression - stenched, drained and strained.  
  
Harry, however heard her. "Is it Ron?"  
  
Hermione bit her lip, and shook her head. "Ginny, I need your help."  
  
Without an answer, Hermione yanked her wrist forward forcefully, and they both escaped from the room, leaning against the wall near the door. Hermione's grasp on her wrist wrung even more agonizingly.  
  
"Listen," Hermione said, all expression and concern gone in her voice. "We need to Apparate."  
  
Ginny was speechless. "Apparate? To where? Hermione, what are you saying?"  
  
"We need to Apparate," she repeated in a dead-prone voice.  
  
"Hermione! We can't leave Harry here alone, he'll-"  
  
Hermione sighed exasperatedly, pushing a finger between Ginny's lips. "You are a tricky, little bitch, aren't you?"  
  
Ginny's voice appeared to be muffled in surprise-  
  
"Shut up, there are no time for games, you silly little girl. We have to Apparate."  
  
Something was wrong - Hermione did not swear, Hermione did not act like this - and her hands weren't sticky, with a foul-smelling depth---in realization, the redhead made to gasp, but it was far too late for her "silly little games".  
  
She pulled Ginny to her chest, until her head was tucked into the crook of her neck -Hermione's skin was changing, from the dark ivory to the lightest ivory she had ever seen, so pale, like the wither of snowflakes on the ground while they melted- suffocation was a need, a growing, drowning need and she was choking on it as a whirlwind of nothing white blew around her, she could feel Hermione's wand jabbing across her back, could hear the door opening, could feel herself trying to mouth Harry's name aloud in a scream everlasting-- Ginny spit out a mouthful of her hair before she realized that her hair was not the usual, bushy brown, but a curly, suave black.  
  
Brown was turning into ash.  
  
/ s.y.m.p.h.o.n.y./ 


	2. EVIL STUFF TWO: Thou Devil May Stare

Aphrodisiac

                   **PART ONE**

**          AND THY DEVIL DO YOU STARE**  ****

___________

The walls were blood-stained, silly, little son-of-a-bitches, Ginny decided, at the second day of being held in the isolation of curate freeze. It was a windowless cell, the walls the color of water and the floor damp with a substance she wished not to recognize. The feeling of complete inadequacy filled her the moment she woke up from the deep sleep she had been possessed in—a black and white sleep with a colorless steel surrounding her, and something blowing across from her, and silver hanging like a locket in front of her eyes. Or perhaps it was not a dream it all.

Because as her hands wandered the cell, she found a strand of silver-blonde hair—and perhaps it was the black morning she had awakened to, but she pushed it into the only pocket of her skirt—when she realized, that someone had changed her clothes. They had done so, with a slight crumble at the edges of the fabric. It was obviously a male who had done it, as the clothes were all black and clashed horribly with her red-flaming hair.

Listen to me, she thought, smiling a soft little smile, debating fashion statements---her smile vanished within seconds when she felt the same, plunging fear about her like a sleeping drought washing across her once more. The clothes, the shoes mismatched along with them, suffocated her insides with it's tight grip, a rope so unsteady that it had been yanked around her wrists with an unbreakable charm.

She raised her head—and saw a glimpse of a word, one single word:

_Sav___

She couldn't touch it, not even with the tips of her fingers, but felt no need to do so. It was obvious the sentence had been unfishined before something erupted—perhaps another prisoner had written it down and fallen at the last, single moment. 

Perhaps, just perhaps.

Her sighs felt sharp and glowering, and whimpers were escaping through her penetrated, restrained gasps. The feeling of helplessness, the yearning for all to wash around her—and finally, everything seemed to stop at once.

Because someone was opening the cell. The door that covered the cracks of the walls was opening.

"Hello?" she whispered hastily.

"Well, well—" said a sweet-turmoiled voice. 

She widened her eyes and saw a hooded man, his body equipped with so much black it stung her eyes instantly, made her feel as if her eyelids had been torn off along with her eyelashes and left to drown in a pool of blood on the floor.

The only thing she saw was the glint of silver that he pushed away from his head when he saw her staring. His tongue ran over his dry, deprived lips and made them moist, his saliva dripping grotesquely across his paler-than-ivory chin.

She knew his name but dare not to speak it, as if cancer would thump her chest as soon as she did, as if darkness would cloak her as soon as her tongue rolled off the minion's name.

She only asked a question. "Who wrote this?" she demanded, in but a croaked whisper. Her arms failed to reach the writing on the wall behind her.

But he understood. He brushed the cloak off his head in such a movement that she was sure his articulate, small little fingers vanished--"Aren't you smart enough to figure it out, sweet little girl?"

"I am not a little –"

"Ah, uh, uh!" His fingers wrung through his strands, his gray eyes glowering, almost red in the dark. 

And then she felt it—the movements he made with his fingers seemed to twist her throat, because before she knew it, she had reached it was trying to breathe—but the ropes were failing to loosen, and a relishing fervor was going down her chest, rubbing it in the heated embers of fire--

Until he let go.

A wish of relief washed over her, her neck bruised and bleeding drops like splattering rain on her fingers, staining it with the seeping thin blood, but she did not try to care. 

"Be glad I didn't do more," he said calmly, his lips upturning into the cruelest whisper she had ever heard—"But, of course, the writing is yours."

"Mine?" she repeated in disbelief. "That can't be mine. I wasn't even awake when that woman – that little, bitch of a woman—"

"You mean Bellatrix," Draco contradicted, amused. "Yes, well, she is a rough woman."

"It's not mine," was only what she would surrender. Her head was floating with a strange light-headed dizziness—she couldn't understand why she wasn't waking up—this was, after all, a dream—a nightmare—

"Yes," he said, gritting his teeth, then moving his hand flawlessly. "It is. A shame, isn't it? When you tried to take your last breath, trying to edge those faithful words with your own, sick tainted, mudblood loving blood…"

"What are you saying?" she sputtered, the agonizing pain now writhing in her temples, the dizziness gone but a disease a float.

"Oh, but sweet Weasley, don't you understand?" he blinked innocently, and she fought to wrench her hands out of the ropes.

"—I am saying," Draco said, brushing the remaining strands that covered his eyes, concealed them as if they were consoled in their own spit, their own heaven and their own sin—"That you, Miss Weasley_, are dead_."

She let her hands falter at last, settling into the burn of the ropes and wished to be burned at stake to rise up from the nightmare.

But the cell and silver never disappeared.


End file.
